


You and me in the battle cages at midnight!

by punchdrunkard (twopunch)



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Friendship, Gen, Luna Wolves, Secret Relationship, Warhammer 40k - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopunch/pseuds/punchdrunkard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Moy and Marr decide to live up to their nicknames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You and me in the battle cages at midnight!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Cotton Candy Bingo Challenge](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), for the prompt: DATE ([table here](http://twopunch.dreamwidth.org/4807.html))
> 
> I should've refreshed my memory of the opening trilogy before writing this, but regardless, I've always found Moy and Marr's nicknames cute. Cute and sad, and then terribly sad -- damnit, Heresy!
> 
> Thanks to [prettymanly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymanly/pseuds/prettymanly) for looking this over and recoiling in horror.

They didn’t even meet properly until they were made company captains (at the same time, true to form). Only then did what would be commonplace competence among legionnaires start to look like strange similarities in the two captains.

Who first coined the nickname? It was almost cruel, dismissive of one or both in how it didn’t distinguish either. Perhaps it was Torgaddon who’d first pointed it out -- it was the kind of offhand remark he’d make, playful and not meant to be mean-spirited, but cutting in its accuracy nonetheless.

Here, the first difference:

Tybalt Marr, “the Either”, didn’t really care.

Verulam Moy, “the Or”, hated it.

Really, what kind of monikers were they? It’s not like people went around calling Loken “the Starch-Arse”, for instance. (Not to his face, anyway, unless your name started with Tarik and ended with Torgaddon.) It wasn’t an inspiring name. It edged towards the faint derision inherent in “the Half-Heard”, which, while accurate, Moy sometimes thought was disrespectful. Though perhaps he only felt that way in solidarity as another captain stuck with a crap name.

Another (small) difference:

It was said they could pass as twins, they were so physically similar. But there were many Wolves who looked similar, surely, thanks to the primarch’s cast on their miens? There, Marr had a small scar under his eye, the only trace of when he’d almost lost it as an aspirant on the volcanic rock plains of Cthonia. There, Moy had a notch in his ear and a long, thin scar along the side of his neck from a duel he refused to talk about. Moy was quieter, more firm in his decisions; Marr mingled more easily with the others, enjoying debates on any topic, especially debates that ended in duels.

And now, a similarity:

Independently, both Marr and Moy decided they ought to meet up with their counterpart -- or nemesis -- and work it out between them, whatever “it” was between them, or not between them, or at least what everyone else thought was some kind of something between them. Settle the matter and get better epithets. Because what self-respecting Luna Wolf could live with such a terribly non-evocative name?

“Verulam Moy, Captain of the 19th?”

“Tybalt Marr, Captain of the 18th?”

They nodded in unison, then winced. The men in the corridor watched expectantly, pretending not to.

“I think we have a problem.”

“I think so too. Battle cages?”

“At midnight?”

“Private?”

“Agreed.”

The two captains shook hands and walked away from each other to continue their day.

Does it even matter who said what there?

Marr had heard a lot about Moy, not by choice. Usually from another captain comparing their records, marveling at imagined similarities. Marr was tempted to ask for a chart.

Most of the talk came from the quartermaster, an older Terran Astartes like Qruze, who’d run the majority of the legionnaires through their paces from recruitment to brotherhood. Marr had been disconcerted to hear how Moy structured his decisions. It was like hearing a story about yourself that is unfamiliar in detail yet wholly recognisable. The nickname and its implication didn’t bother him, but Marr could admit to a curiosity about his “twin”. He could learn to be different once he knew howthey were the same.

On the other hand, Moy saw the nicknames as a dangerous obstacle to his ascendancy in the legion. Captain of the 19th was nothing to sneeze at, but... surely 18th was even better? Closer to 1st, much as they all denied that company numbers had anything to do with rank. Moy was also realistic enough to know that short of the impossible (major transport catastrophe taking out all the top captains; xenos smarter and stronger than a Luna Wolf; Moy waking up one day with Emperor-level powers, if one must be ridiculous), he would never surpass the likes of Abaddon and Sejanus. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t _try_ , of course -- he was a Luna Wolf -- but nobody expected to usurp the elite of the elite. Marr was what one would call a realistic target.

There were worse reasons for a duel. There were better as well.

The Luna Wolves were not known for being the most practical of legions.

So, the battle-cages at midnight:

“This is awkward,” said Marr after a long moment of silence.

Moy cleared his throat and turned to examine the weapons rack. After another moment, Marr examined the rack as well, and chose a long iron staff with a spiked head. Relieved, Moy picked out his favourite weapon, a sickle attached to a heavy weight and chain. It would be too much if even those preferences were the same.

An hour later, the cage floor slick with sweat and blood, they switched weapons and went at it again.

Another hour and they collapsed against each other, laughing, sharing, learning and plotting.

The day cycle on board the _Vengeful Spirit_ had just started when the two captains were found in the mess hall, heads close and whispering in each other’s ears. They ate quickly and left together, thick as thieves.

“Must’ve been a good night,” Torgaddon observed. He elbowed Aximand and leered. Aximand rolled his eyes and stole the rest of Torgaddon’s meal.

“It’s better that they’re getting along,” Sejanus said. “Morale will improve in their companies.”

“More like they’ll be all but indistinguishable now,” Aximand said around a mouthful of roll. “Be careful with your witticisms, Tarik, lest we end up with ‘the Unlucky’ or ‘the Utterly Lazy’ some day.”

“Hey!” Torgaddon protested, then, noticing his missing meal, “That was my roll!”

Let them laugh, Marr and Moy said to each other. Let them say that one was as good as the other, because they would be. They would find each other’s weaknesses and fix them, exchange thoughts and hone them sharp, and in this manner better themselves and their men. What was brotherhood except to have someone that knew you, that trusted you and was trusted in turn?

Oh, they still had their secrets from each other; they were, after all, not the same person, and they had sworn no oaths. Let others see only that they were similar, and not that they were stronger together. Let them think the late-night meetings were less than they were, when they were sessions as important and intense as a council of war. It would be their private joke and their hidden strength.


End file.
